Moment
by FoxyWolf16
Summary: Just small snippets in time.
1. Cat

Another moment I found that does not fit in anywhere~! Teehee~!

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><p><span>Cat<span>

All was quiet inside of Jerusalem's bureau. Malik was hunched over his papers, completely focussed on his work. Outside in the hidden garden, Altair lay snoozing in the shade, stretched out on his side.

There was movement beyond the door, and Malik looked up from his maps as Altair suddenly stretched out on the rug. Malik heard the distinct sounds of bones popping and made a mental note to perhaps put some more pillows out.

Not for Altair, Malik hastily added in his mind, but for all passing assassins. No point in them resting if all it did was make them ache even more. He was a good _dai_, who cared for those that came to visit, even if some, or one of them, was an arrogant, pig-headed, cold-

Altair rolled over, and the sound of a yowling screech filled the bureau. Altair was completely up the wall and clinging to the grated ceiling within a second, and Malik went to the door right as a black cat came trotting past him, fur puffed up and an annoyed look on it's face. It hopped up on Malik's desk and began to angrily groom itself. It must have come in from the opened grate and found a good place to sleep-right beside the snoring Altair, who had clearly remained unaware of it's presence.

Malik looked up at Altair, who still clung tightly to the ceiling. His hood had fallen down, revealing the nervous sweat he had broken out in. And then-

-Malik burst out into a fit of laughter, covering his face with his hand and leaning against the door. Altair glared at him.

"I am glad you found that amusing," he groused, swinging his legs down so that he hung down straight, then landing in a crouch back on the rug. "I cannot imagine that you would laugh, waking up to the sound of a demon screeching in your ear."

"A mere cat!" Malik snickered, "A cat chased the great _Master Assassin_Altair up onto the ceiling!"

"It did not chase me," Altair asserted with a huff, although the beginning of a smile appeared on his scarred lips.

"...I merely ran from it."

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><p>aaaaand rest.<p> 


	2. Orange

This is a much longer snippet, but it did not fit in anywhere with what I'm writing. Usually anything I write about with Altair I put into a massive document and ignore it, cuz I prefer writing about Ezio and his silliness. _ In any case, enjoy and review~~!

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><p><span>Orange<span>

Altair was not asleep, Malik could see from his desk. The man was still sitting up, leaning against the wall of the garden. Golden eyes were turned up to the latticed ceiling, and he was absentmindedly peeling an orange. It was one of the first things Malik had seen him eat- the man seemed to run on the energy of wind and nothing else. Any food he ate was merely for pleasure.

Malik looked back down at his maps, scowling. He had no information on the roads he wanted, and despite Altair's swiftness between cities, he had arrived late because of it. They needed knowledge of all the Templar encampments on the roads, or someone could eventually be injured or killed. He scratched his chin. He supposed he could go out and do it himself- he was the best cartographer in the order, after all. But he would need an escort, or two. A one-armed assassin against a potential ambush of Templars were not good odds.

"Malik."

Malik looked up with a scowl, focussing on his constant source of irritation in the garden. Altair had not looked over at him, and was holding the freshly peeled orange close to his mouth, but was not eating it.

"What do you want now?" he growled, putting his single hand on his hip and leaning. By all rights, he was glad for the distraction, for he had been staring at maps and papers all day, but he would not let Altair know this. "Well? Speak up novice, I do not have all day."

Altair waited a beat, then lowered the orange from his mouth. Part of Malik was disappointed, but he smothered that thought immediately.

"I came across a scene today that I did not know how to handle," Altair finally said, golden eyes leaving the sky and looking over at Malik. "...I wanted to ask for your advice on the matter."

It would be _so easy_ for Malik to rebuff him, to ignore the bastard and go back to his business. Whatever it was could be put aside in favor of more important things. But Malik halted himself from dismissing the assassin. Altair had asked, humbly, for his advice, instead of demanding it like he typically did. The arrogant brat was learning, and Malik would not be the one to ruin the lesson learned. He picked up an orange from the bowl and went to the door.

"Peel that for me," he ordered, tossing it to Altair. The man caught it easily, setting his own orange in his lap as he obediently began to cut away the outer skin with his knife. "What happened today?"

Altair tilted his head for a moment, as though to organize his thoughts. If he was an expert with weapons, then words were his utter failing. Malik could throw a word like a dagger, but Altair would always stumble and falter.

"It was in the middle district, in the marketplace," he began slowly, "...I was searching for information on a target. A man began to beat his wife for some imagined offense that she could not have forseen."

Malik wrinkled his nose. He knew the sort.

"...I went to interfere," Altair continued, "He was beating her so hard she was bleeding, but another man stopped me before I could get there. A merchant. He said... he said that there was nothing that I could do. The woman had a choice between her husband and her family. Once married, she was his to do with as he pleased. If I killed him, she would return to her family a widow that could not remarry for four months. A burden to her family."

Altair held out the peeled orange, and Malik crossed the garden and accepted it. After a heavy moment, he eased himself down onto the rug beside Altair.

"It is a sad thing, that women are considered to be property in this time and age," he began slowly, "...I imagine the husband is dead now anyways."

"...I may have followed him down an alley."

Malik let himself smile a little, hiding it behind his orange. Altair's scarred lips quirked.

"Novice, handling things and then asking for advice about it after the fact," Malik scolded half-heartedly, "In any case, it is but four months. The woman can remarry, and she may take care to find a kinder husband. That is all one can hope for."

Altair was silent, looking at his orange. He picked it up and gave it a close examination.

"If I take a wife, I would treat her like the finest silver," he said, finally taking a bite out of the orange. Malik raised an eyebrow at him. "And any children like the purest gold."

"...Al Mualim instructs distance," Malik said quietly, although he put no edge in his voice. It was one of the few things he disagreed with about their wise leader. "It prevents a sense of loss should one of you be killed."

"Then I will feel loss," Altair asserted, teeth flashing as he bit into the orange again. He was suddenly not Altair, but an eagle staring at Malik. Golden eyes saw everything, missing no small detail. "...And if my children lose me, they will understand the feeling of loss. And they will grow to be better men than I can ever hope to be."

Malik couldn't think of anything to say to that. So he shook his head.

"Well, it is good you will not take a wife," he said simply, and Altair looked at him incredulously. Malik smirked. "Novices cannot marry. And the idea of your children puts my poor soul at unease."

Altair sighed loudly at this, and Malik chuckled in spite of himself.

The eagle was gone and Altair in all his frustrating glory was back. He could not ask for more than this.

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><p>Thanks by the way, for the last three reviews. I'm glad that my little half-snippets that crowd my mind can still function as something enjoyable to read. -_-<p>

aaaaaand rest.


	3. Freefall

This could probably be a stand alone one-shot. But uh. Meh. I may rework it a little to post it as it's own, but for now I'm ambivalent about it. -_-

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><p><span>Freefall<span>

The silence inside the small office was stifling. The cloying smell of incense, once a pleasure to Malik, was now frustrating and heavy. He tossed aside his quill and glared at his map. As pleased as he was to be rid of Jerusalem and once more stationed within Masyaf; he rather wished he had a garden still to step out into for fresh air.

But no. Altair wished for his counsel to always be close at hand, now that Al Mualim- the traitorous bastard- had fallen, and Altair now the Grand Master. Malik clicked his tongue loudly as he put the stick of incense out, then looked up when his door swung open.

Altair, in all his annoying glory, stood there, a pouch slung around his shoulder. There was a look on his face that Malik had never seen before, and it made him nervous.

"Altair- Altair, _what are you-"_

Altair did not hesitate a second, sweeping in and knocking Malik off his feet before bodily throwing the man over his shoulder. He made for the door, and Malik thumped angrily on his back with his one arm. He could not reach the throwing knives he kept in his robes, or Altair would be feeling sharp justice at that very moment.

"Altair, you novice! You _son of a camel_, put me down-"

"I have spent the last month doing nothing but administrative paperwork," Altair rumbled finally, and Malik fell still to listen to him as the man took him outside of the office, shutting the door firmly behind him. "I am going mad. I thought: "I need some air" and then I thought: "Malik has been forced to do this all day, every day. How does he handle this?"

Malik scowled. "I have to."

"Well. Now we are getting air." Altair said firmly as he headed down the street, "We are getting away from dust and foul ink for even just a moment. We are going to enjoy a blue sky today, Brother."

Malik sighed loudly. "Novice. How am I to enjoy a blue sky while hanging from your shoulder? Why do you still carry me anyways...?"

"...I had assumed you would fight me a little harder," Altair said sagely, and when Malik looked up, there was a slight smile on the man's scarred lips. They had arrived at the base of one of Masyaf's tallest watchtowers, and guards gave them both odd looks as they traveled upwards. None stopped them however- who would stop Altair, the Grand Master? Even though he refused to don the black robes Al Mualim once wore, not being one for traditions, everyone recognized the man that seemed to be the epitome of an assassin. He was an eagle in human skin.

Malik thumped Altair's back impassively.

"Novice," he growled, for the sake of saying it. Altair seemed to realize his acceptance of what was happening and put him down on his feet. "I am not a child's rag doll, for you to pick up and carry about where ever you wish."

"But it does amuse me," Alair pointed out rakishly, and Malik distantly wondered what the penalty was for shoving a drawing compass up the Grand Master's nose. He had one tucked away in his pocket, and it would be _so easy_...

They had reached the top of the tower, and Altair's smooth strides broke into a small trot as he moved to one of the archways, where a wooden ledge was built. Malik watched anxiously as Altair walked to the end of it, standing over what Malik knew to be piles of hay, but they were _so far down._ The slightest miscalculation in a jump would result in broken bones or death; the freefalling leap down the mountain side was not one to be taken lightly.

"Altair..." Malik began unsurely, standing at the ledge but not walking out. The sky was indeed blue, and the wind was something Malik craved, but his uncertainty was getting the best of him. Altair turned and looked at him, then sat, letting his legs swing off the side of the ledge.

"Come," Altair beckoned, and sat the pouch he was carrying down beside him. He flipped it open to reveal several oranges and pomegranates. "...I will even peel your oranges for you. Come out here and sit with me."

Well. An offer like that, Malik could not refuse. He hated anybody doing anything for him, despised it with a fierce sort of passion, but he hated peeling oranges with his teeth more. The bitter taste of the peel nearly outweighed the sweetness of the orange inside.

Slowly, he stepped out on creaking wood; then berated himself internally. Assassins had no fear, and here he was trembling in terror of something he used to do naturally. Altair was right; he had been cooped up inside for far too long.

Malik walked casually the rest of the way out, then eased himself down behind Altair, letting his legs swing off the other side. Malik looked down and his stomach clenched tightly at the sight of the ground so far below them, and the fog that hid the terrible descent down the rest of the mountainside.

"You pick terrible places for your rest," he scolded Altair, who snorted as he casually peeled the first orange. Malik shook his head and looked up at the sky. It seemed bluer than usual that day, azure expanse disappearing behind rolling hills and yellow-brown mountains. It was beautiful, and more than Malik would have ever gotten to see if he had been forced to stay at the Jerusalem bureau. As much as he liked taking care of and advising the younger assassins, being held inside a prison of four walls and a caged garden had nearly driven him mad. The sky he could see through the latticed walls of the garden was not nearly enough for him.

Something pushed against his back a little, and Malik reached around with his one hand to take the orange Altair had peeled for him. He watched as Altair tossed the spiral of orange peel off the ledge, letting it fall and disappear into the fog.

He looked back at the sky and bit into his orange.

"This is good," Malik found himself saying, for no particular reason. He did not like speaking pointlessly, so quickly tried to find something else to say. "...to get out. Perhaps the novice is right for once. A rarity to behold."

Altair did not respond- he never responded to compliments, even back-handed ones like Malik gave. No, he only rose to catch the bait of insults, and Malik half-expected he did it for the fun of it.

"I am glad you are here," Altair suddenly said. Malik did not look behind him, but could feel the wind whip away Altair's cowl. He never wore it down, but now he made no move to fix it. "...I believe I would run this Order into the ground, if I did not have you here. I hardly understand what it is I'm doing, only that for some reason, every single scrap of paper that passes my desk needs to be read and signed _urgently_."

"That is responsibility," Malik sneered, although he preened a little on the inside that Altair had admitted his need of him. "...Something that you are not used to, I imagine."

A canyon of silence opened up between them.

"...No, I am not," Altair said softly after a long time. Malik finished his orange and reached for a pomegranate. There was already a slit cut into it, and Malik was able to tear it open more with his teeth and fingers, indulging in the sweet seeds inside of it.

"I..."

Malik waited, and Altair shook his head, immediately dismissing what he was going to say. Malik's curiosity was piqued though, and he turned to look at the back of Altair's head. His brown hair was messy from the hood, sticking up haphazardly. His broad shoulders hunched low.

"What is it, Altair?" Malik prodded, "...You do not begin a sentence and then cut it off, novice."

"...It is not my right to speak of him."

So this had something to do with Kadar. Malik's throat tightened and suddenly the pomegranate did not taste so sweet anymore. He turned back to look out at the horizon.

"...Speak, Altair. Speak what you will." he finally sighed tiredly, and it is exhaustion of carrying the pain that lets him do it. Altair shifted, discomfited, but continued to speak.

"It is my responsibility now, to watch over and care for the novices," Altair sighed deeply, "I think it could be in better hands though. Before... a half year ago, I could not have given a damn whether or not the novices died. I did not care."

Malik felt bitter anger twist inside of him, bile in his throat. Altair shifted again, lifting a hand to his mouth as though to hide his expression from all of Masyaf below them.

"...I understand now... what it means to take care of them. And now I fear their deaths, I fear their suffering. I fear sending them on the smallest of errands, because if they die, it is more blood that I have caused. I cannot even- I cannot send them to fetch me water from the kitchens without wondering what sort of great battle they may get caught up in halfway there."

Malik killed his anger. The Altair that sat at his back was not the Altair whose carelessness had killed Kadar.

"It is noble of you, novice, to keep the young ones so safe," he said after a moment, "But they are assassins. How will they learn the things they need to withoutexperience? You cannot always stop death."

"I could have stopped his."

Anger again. Malik did well to shelve it.

"...Yes. The Altair that was a cold-blooded, arrogant bastard could have stopped Kadar's death," he said slowly, "...But he did not. And now _that_ Altair is gone from this world, replaced by an equally annoying, but wiser one. I have told you this. You are the worst sort of novice, always needing things to be repeated."

Altair let out a laugh that didn't sound like a laugh, and when Malik tossed down the remains of the pomegranate, Altair closed the small pouch and strung it back over his shoulder.

"...I did not know him. I did not try to," he said slowly, getting to his feet and still not looking at Malik. "...Is it...within my right to miss his presence...?"

Malik gave Altair's back an incredulous look when he realized the other man was asking for the right to mourn Kadar.

"...Yes," he said, and although Altair's stature did not change, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. Relief flooded the gaping canyon between them.

"...I miss him, too."

Altair nodded, stepping to the edge of the wooden platform they sat on, and to Malik's horror, the man _leapt_. He vanished in a whirl of white, too fast for the eye to see, and Malik looked over just in time to see Altair land heavily in the huge pile of hay at the bottom of the cliff. A moment later, he climbed out, then waved casually up at Malik.

"ALTAIR, YOU DAMNED IDIOT NOVICE," Malik roared, and he saw Altair duck his head, obviously hiding a smile even from so far away. Malik cursed and spat over the edge of the platform, hoping that maybe his aim was good and it would hit Altair, to show him exactly what he thought of the eagle's attempts to break free from the man's skin.

And the edge of the platform waited for him in silence. Malik stopped dead in his anger. Wind snapped at his white robes like rectrices around his knees, and his hair shifted with the wind. He looked up at the blue sky.

At the bottom of the cliff, Altair waited and watched.

Altair's jump only made sense to Malik now- it was the quickest way down, and if there had been an emergency, the leap would have been perfectly justified. Malik had even made the jump before, but he had not done that since-

-he looked at the stump that remained of his arm and swallowed.

Altair watched, golden eyes turned up to the sky.

Malik ran- he could not with good sense just jump from a casual walk. Running meant to wipe his mind clear of everything, and it meant that he dropped the heavy weight of panic and fear, and even_ Kadar_ and-

Malik jumped.

Blue sky and brown earth became one as he flew through the air, too fast to make a distinction between the two.

It was the same as he always remembered.

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><p>aaaaaaand rest.<p> 


	4. Name

This is a sequel to Chapter 2: 'Cat'. I sometimes stare in horror at the things my cats do as well, so this is somewhat based off that.

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><p><span>Name<span>

"Safety and pea-"

Altair stopped dead in his tracks. The cat from the week before sat on the counter, swishing it's tail back and forth and was purring contentedly. It gave Altair a moderately disdainful look, not unlike the one that Malik was sporting.

"And to what do I owe this displeasure to?" Malik sniffed, and Altair scowled at the cat, edging into the bureau with a suspicious glare towards the animal. "Don't look at him that way. He is an excellent ratter. Just this morning he brought me one that he caught near the grain baskets. So you should be thanking him, novice."

Malik pointedly did not mention how long he had danced around the idea of even picking the rat up to toss it outside. It was one of the more disgusting things he had ever done.

"...I am not thanking that demon," Altair said firmly, moving over to the counter where Malik stood. "I've completed my investigations-"

"-and it certainly took you long enough."

"-I stopped to assist Fayiz. He needed an escort out of the city walls," Altair asserted, and Malik clicked his tongue and made a noise in his throat. "...I need a feather, Brother."

Malik pulled out his small box, withdrawing a white feather and handing it over to him. Altair took it, and Malik smirked at him.

"Why don't you give our new ratter a name, novice?" he drawled, and Altair's yellow-brown eyes looked over at the cat. Quick as a flash, he reached out and picked the cat up, holding it close to his face. "I suppose I shall leave that honor up to you, since you are _such good friends_ with him."

"Very well," Altair said, keeping a completely straight face. "I proclaim this demon beast... _Altair._"

Malik snorted loudly and disbelievingly.

"I think not," he leered at Altair, who put the cat back down on the counter and went to the door, "I can barely deal with one Altair. A second-"

The cat suddenly made a strange sound in it's gut, and before their eyes, vomited up what looked like the remains of several rats.

Malik stared in horror, his mind not comprehending what he was seeing at first.

Altair hovered in the doorway, then held up his feather in sort of casual salute. He grinned brightly at Malik.

"Safety and peace, Brother!" he said cheerfully, and Malik looked up just as Altair flitted away, and there was the sound of boots on the garden wall outside. He looked back at the second 'Altair', who stared haughtily back at Malik before hopping off the counter and disappearing into Malik's quarters.

The rat remains sat there on the counter, waiting to be cleaned.

Malik whimpered.

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><p>...aaaaaaaand rest.<p> 


	5. Brighter

Malik let out a long, patient-as-possible sigh as he walked silently through the halls of the fortress. Despite his attempts at remaining calm, he must have still looked fearsome, because novices and assassins alike ducked out of the way to avoid him. Rauf had comically pressed himself flat against the wall as Malik had blown by, earning himself a nasty scowl.

Okay. So maybe he could not really get angry at Altair. After all, it was the man's firstborn son.

Three months, and the novelty of the baby had yet to wear off on Altair. No amount of screaming and god-awful messes had yet to make the man turn away from the infant Darim.

Maria had long ago thrown up her arms in exasperation, which Malik supposed really said something about Altair. The man had virtually no patience; but seemed to produce a neverending well of it for his son.

Malik slowed down as he thought about it- no, he could not get angry with Altair. The man had been so consumed by the Apple as of late... the baby was exactly what he needed. Three months, and the haunted look in the man's eyes was slowly vanishing, and he was eating properly once more. Darim was Altair's savior.

Malik reached Altair and Maria's quarters, and inhaled deeply to rid himself of his anger. He did not bother to knock- Maria was at the river with the other women, so he knew he would not be walking in on them doing _that._

Again.

Malik shuddered.

He let himself in, squinting around through the dim room until he spotted Altair. The man was sitting against Darim's tiny bed, cradling his son in the crook of his arm. Darim giggled and made odd, gurgling noises in his throat. Altair was definitely aware of Malik, but did not look up from the baby.

"Brother," Malik said chidingly, but not cuttingly so, "...You are gaining a stack of papers as high as a mountain on your desk. Perhaps you should bring Darim and come attend to that."

Altair did not answer at first, then slowly looked up. His cowl was down around his shoulders, Malik noted distantly, letting his expression be seen. His mouth was twisted into a deep frown, and something oddly dark flashed through his golden-brown eyes.

"...And suddenly, I understand." Altair said, his voice hoarse. Malik tilted his chin up.

"...Understand what?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Fear. I understand now what it means to be afraid- to fear that I might lose someone. I have never felt like this before," Altair said softly, and Malik's breath hitched in his chest. "...Now I understand why... I understand your pain when you lost Kadar. If something happens to Darim... If I lose him somehow... I don't know- I don't know what I would do."

As disjointed as it was, it was one of the longest phrases Malik had ever heard Altair utter. He swallowed thickly.

"...Brother," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Bring Darim; let's go upstairs."

Altair was silent, then he leaned off the bed and slowly walked over to Malik.

"What if something happens to him?"

Malik shook his head, raising his single arm and placing his hand on Altair's shoulder. He squeezed in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, hoping that his camraderie would somehow chase away the darkness. He lead Altair out of the darkened room.

"I don't know," he admitted softly, "Nobody does. I did not know what to do when Kadar was killed- our only hope is that we can carry onwards, and find brighter days."

As he spoke, they came out on the stairwell, and the sun shone in brightly through the windows. Darim screwed up his face and made a noise of discontent, waving tiny fists around to show his displeasure. Altair smiled and bounced him, just a little, and Darim opened golden-brown eyes to peer up at his father and Malik.

"Have you find your brighter days?" Altair asked, after a moment, and Malik snorted. He lifted his fingers and wiggled them at Darim, who giggled out a squeal and grabbed for them.

"Something like that," he chuckled, and both he and Altair looked out the window overlooking the valley. "...I believe I have found my brighter days."

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><p>EHHHHHHHHHHHH I don't like this one so much. I had the idea, and then I waited to write it when I was really tired, so meh.<p>

annnnd rest.


	6. Touch

Touch

"Touch it."

"...Huh?"

Altair felt like he could have taken a backwards leap off Masyaf's tallest tower- with no hay to soften his fall- and _he_ _wouldn't regret it_, simply to avoid the look Malik gave him because of his less-than-intelligent response. It was a look he was unfortunately all too familiar with- the one that made him feel like a total, blundering idiot.

"Pay attention, you novice," Malik growled, and Altair nodded dumbly. "I said to touch it."

Well, the fact of the matter was was that Altair _had_ been paying attention. He had heard Malik loud and clear the first time. His brain had simply shuddered to a screeching halt, and the resulting momentum had caused the word 'huh' (a light word, airy and soft and prone to being flung around a lot) to come out instead of anything else.

"I-" Altair swallowed thickly. "I-"

The two sat in utter silence. After about a minute, Malik huffed out an impatient sigh and rounded the counter that separated him and Altair.

Altair wasn't sure if he appreciated this or not- it made them a little more equal, put them on even footing, but it also brought Malik closer. The man was dressed in nothing more than his sirwal- his black robe of office was gone, as were his white robes and grey undertunic. This left his chest bare, and the finely bandaged stump that was left of his arm exposed for all to see.

Altair's stomach twisted in horror at the sight and so he tried to avoid looking. He had caused this. _He had done this_.

"I said to touch it, Altair," Malik said again, and he moved the stump forward. He leered- a dangerous expression. "Unless it disgusts you?"

"_No_." Altair's response was forceful enough to surprise himself. Malik's only response was to tilt an eyebrow. "I'm just- I-"

His hands were shaking at his sides.

"What is it, Altair?"

"I'm not disgusted by you," Altair said firmly, "Your arm is a part of you and therefore it does not bother me at all. I'm just- I am-"

_I am a coward. I am a fool. Please, I've wept these words to you and you said you forgave me, so why am I still_-

Malik must have seen his distress. He raised his hand and took Altair's elbow, giving it a good squeeze.

"You can start by taking off your gloves and bracers," he said quietly, a reassuring edge in his voice. He was not going to let Altair go, but he wasn't going to be forceful in this endeavor. For the reassurance, Altair was thankful, but now he was rooted completely to the spot. If he ran now, if he bolted in fear of facing this mistake, it would be yet another thorn in their relationship- a relationship that owed it's existence to Malik's capacity for forgiveness and that alone.

Altair nodded, his voice lost to him. He slowly unbuckled his bracers and slid them off, letting them fall onto the counter. He stripped away his gloves, one finger at a time in order to give himself some time.

He could not stall forever though, not with Malik's dark eyes on him and watching his every movement. His hands bared, he slowly raised them up, but did not touch Malik.

"...It's an arm, Altair," Malik said, deep accent soft in the quiet of the bureau. "A little mutilated, but it's still an arm. It is alright."

His hand left Altair's elbow and found Altair's shaking one. Altair almost started- the man's skin was weathered, but warm, and he did not force so much as guide Altair's hand until he had laid it on what remained of Malik's left arm.

Altair's breath left him in a single rush of air. His lungs felt like they were bound in iron, but he raised his other hand up and took Malik's stump completely in his grasp. Malik shifted it just a little, but let Altair handle it on his own.

_I did this_.

Malik's hand found his elbow again and squeezed.

_I forgave you._

Altair inhaled. His fingers caught the ridge of the wrappings. Altair looked up at Malik sharply when the man moved uncomfortably, and he slid his fingers under the fold of the white bandages.

"May I?"

Malik hesitated just a little. Now he was pushing on his own boundaries, and the two were both stepping into unknown waters.

(Well. Malik was stepping into unknown waters. Altair had been drowning in them this entire time.)

"Yes." he said quietly. An admission, an acceptance, an aquiescance. Altair watched him a moment longer, studied his face for any sign of total discomfort (because in no way was this ever going to be completely comfortable) before he undid the fold of the bandage, letting it slide away. Altair sucked in his next breath at the scarring on the end of the stump. The surgeons at Masyaf- skilled as they were- could not prevent the white crisscross of scars across Malik's skin.

Altair nervously traced one of them with his fingers.

"A mace?" he asked, and Malik nodded.

"One of the soldiers grabbed my other arm so that I couldn't escape it. I was struck repeatedly- much more and I would not have needed a surgery."

Altair flinched. Malik steadily ignored it, watching as Altair traced the scars of the mace with his fingers. His nails were jagged and dirty from climbing the rooftops, and felt strange against his skin. The two men were silent until Altair brushed against the spot where the surgeons had folded his skin over to close the wound. Old nerve endings flared to life and Malik hissed involuntarily.

Startled, Altair let go. Malik felt almost _deprived_ at the loss of contact. He mentally pushed that thought out of mind.

"...I'm sorry," Altair said softly, "...Does it hurt?"

"Not really," Malik replied, bending to pick up the bandage on the ground. With expert deftness, he one-handedly wrapped it back around the stump. "It's... sensitive. When it rains, it hurts like a demon. But that's really all."

"Right," Altair said quietly, watching as Malik tucked in the edge of the bandage. "...I... I should go. There is an informant waiting for me."

Avoidance. The need for some space. Malik nodded his acceptance- he needed his own space now, and whether or not there was actually an informant waiting around in the middle of the night for Altair did not concern him.

"I will leave the grate unlocked for you, Brother," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "...I will see you in the morning."

Altair did not flee- he still had just enough pride to keep himself from running away, but Malik could see the fast pace of his step and how his hands shook so badly he kept them fisted in the loose ends of his robes. His boots scuffed against the wall outside, the latticework rattled a little under his weight, and then he was gone.

Malik let out a deep breath and looked at the lantern, reaching out with the cup to douse out its flames. Tomorrow was another, brighter day, and he needed his rest.

* * *

><p>I wasn't sure if this one had a slightly yaoi undertone, so I was going to make it a short one-shot than include it here. But I guess you can read it however you want.<p>

(Not that I have any problem with yaoi because AltMal is simply hot. Sorry Ezio/Leo friends... Ezio just _doesn't get it__._He is way too much into pussy for me to see him in a gay relationship. Maria for whatever reason annoys me heavily so that's probably why I ship AltMal when I read/write yaoi.)

aaaaaaand rest.


	7. Wake

Chapter 8  
>'<em>Wake'<em>

* * *

><p>It was really, really too early to be awake.<p>

In fact, Malik was not awake. He was sleeping comfortably upon a mess of sleeping rugs with his blanket tucked up to his chin. It was chilly outside, the whole of Masyaf covered under a layer of snow. Nobody but the guards were awake, and nobody who was awake wanted to be.

Except for two boys.

Two boys who, after failing to drag their extremely unamused father out of bed, found themselves hovering over the lightly snoring Malik. Supressing their laughter with all the subtlety of a six-year-old and a four-year-old could manage (meaning to say, they didn't do it very well), the two boys grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it off of their sleeping 'uncle'.

Malik snapped awake with a jolt. Years of training had him tensed and prepared for a fight, but then he heard the half-hidden snorts behind mittened hands. He let out a long sigh and looked over his shoulder. Darim and Sef stood close by, both dressed for the cold and looking excited. Darim grinned with all the unholy mischief he could muster- he was the idea man behind this assault, Malik guessed. Beside him, Sef's yellow-gold eyes were practically glowing.

"Darim," Malik groaned, then rolled over and wrapped his arm around the boy's waist. Darim giggled as Malik dragged him to the ground, and Sef squealed loudly as he was subjected to the same treatment in short order. Malik tucked both of the wriggling boys close to him. He rested his chin on Sef's head. "Darim. Sef. What are you two doing? Surely it is too early for such young ones to be up."

"That's what _baba_ said," Darim said smartly, twisting so that he was lying his head on one of Malik's cushions. Sef wiggled around beside him until he was curled as close to Malik's chest as he could get. He yawned loudly and his eyes slid closed for a moment, and Malik hid a smirk. Clearly, it was indeed too early for at least one of them. "We came to see if Uncle Malik is as lazy as _baba_."

Malik barked a laugh, reaching up to rest his hand on his neck, scratching an itch at his nape. Grit came loose under his nails and he grimaced- it was too cold to bathe in the river, but washing himself in the basin was proving not to be helpful when he spent his days roughhousing with two overexuberant boys.

Malik looked at the two beside him. It really wasn't a bad way to spend his days, he decided.

"I am not lazy, you brat," he chuckled finally, and Darim grinned mischeviously, "...But your _baba_ and your uncle are old men. You should let them get their rest. And your brother seems to be asleep too."

Sure enough, Sef had fallen back to sleep, one small hand tangled in the folds of Malik's sleeping robe and the other curled under his chin. Darim watched him for a little bit and Malik watched Darim, considering. He and Kadar had been five years apart- enough so that Malik felt responsible for his younger brother. When Kadar rested, Malik let him even if he had wanted to play. Sef and Darim were barely two years apart, however, and when there was mischief to be had, Darim could be extremely demanding.

Finally, Darim relaxed and let out a yawn of his own. Malik smirked a little and closed his eyes, listening as Darim shuffled and wiggled around for a little bit, trying to stubbornly prove that he wasn't tired. True to form, however, he fell still, and Malik listened as the boy's breathing evened out and lengthened. When he reopened his eyes, Darim was asleep.

Malik chuckled and reached back, grabbing the blanket that the boys had yanked off of him. He pulled it around them and let himself slide back into a comfortable sleep.

Perhaps, when they awoke at a more auspicious hour, he would coerce Darim and Sef into throwing snowballs at their father while he slept.

* * *

><p><em>fin<br>_

* * *

><p>Altair was meant to have an appearance, but I think Malik convincing the boys to attack their father in his sleep with snowballs later is <em>far more <em>_appropriate_.

...aaaaaaaaand rest.


	8. Missing

This was actually a kinkmeme prompt... one of the AC guys goes back to somewhere and finds everyone/someone gone due to a Middle Ages trolling.

* * *

><p><span>Missing<span>

Jerusalem was maddeningly hot on this particular day, Altair thought as he stood off to the far side of the busy marketplace. He hung in the retreating shadow of a nearby merchant's stall, close enough to soak up some measure of coolness from the shade. He had been there for several hours now. Soon, the middle of the day would be gone and it would be less miserable to run across Jerusalem's rooftops- less chance of collapsing of heat stroke, in any case.

Altair shifted and clasped his hands behind him. Malik would never let him live it down if he fell into the bureau in such a state. True, they were something-like-friends-but-not-quite-maybe, but Malik was never afraid to laugh at the young Grand Master for any small mistake.

Altair puffed out a deep sigh, narrowing his eyes at the beggars that edged a little closer to him. Some eyed the pouches on his belt-_ha_! Like they would pickpocket him so easily. Altair straightened and scowled, somehow perfecting a severe countenance even with his clothes wet with sweat and rumpled from uncomfortable shifting. The beggars moved off to find easier pickings, and Altair slouched against the wall. The hot stone burned his back and he jumped back to attention once more.

He was truly beginning to hate Jerusalem.

Altair scanned a lazy eye over the bustling marketplace as he let his thoughts wander. Normally the Grand Master did not travel, but Altair had no intention of mimicking Al Mualim and locking himself away in Masyaf's grand citadel. He was still young and itched to explore, to travel, to climb, and to leap with a faith inspired not by God or Allah or what-have-you, but by something more primal and-

Altair took another step to the left, falling back into the shadow. The merchant at the stall eyed him nervously, but said nothing.

In any case, Altair had had no choice but to come to Jerusalem. He had been trading letters with Malik since the man had returned to his bureau after the battle at Masyaf nearly four months ago. At first, it was just asking for advice (which Malik gave readily and at great, sarcastic length), but as his stress began to build up and the paperwork made less and less sense, Altair requested Malik to return to Masyaf as his second-in-command. When Altair realized that Al Mualim had had his fingers in the assassin's treasury and the taxes from the village were not as they ought to be, his request turned to outright begging.

Malik, in Malik-fashion of course, had denied the request. Altair supposed he could order Malik to his side, but he did not wish to damage their fragile maybe-friendship. Altair continued begging, and Malik's last letter had told him that if Altair asked one more time, Malik would no longer write to him.

Altair hadn't believed him. Malik was a _rafiq_, he was obligated to write the Grand Master. Altair pleaded again in his following letter.

Malik didn't write back. So he was bluffing, Altair had assumed, and had written again. And then again, and again, over the course of a month. Malik never responded.

And so Altair, having left Masyaf in Rauf's well-intentioned-but-probably-not-qualified hands, was in Jerusalem.

Altair peered through the weave of his cowl, seeing a group of guards standing nearby. None were facing him, so he leaned forward, then ducked down the alley adjacent from him. He was not followed, and as the sounds of the market died away, he found a stack of old crates to climb up on. A leap to a bar, delicately balanced for just a second, and then he jumped to the rooftop.

He had hoped that, with the lowering of the sun, it would be cooler above the city, but in reality it was no less miserable than a few hours before. The stones radiated heat and the wind was gone that day, leaving the air dry and stagnant. It settled in his lungs like dust.

Altair sighed and shook away his discomfort. He had wasted enough time waiting around. With an easy-going pace, he moved from rooftop to rooftop, ducking down when he saw archers patrolling. The heat had probably made them apathetic to his presence, however, because he was certain one had seen him but hadn't even bothered to string an arrow.

Altair breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar rooftop of the bureau came into sight. He could strangle Malik for not writing later- first he was going to dunk his head in the fountain to cool off, dignity be damned.

As Altair approached the bureau, however, he noticed something distinctly..._off_.

The entrance was shut. It was the middle of the day, when assassins would be moving in and out of the bureau, and Malik had the entrance shut. Altair leapt from the neighboring building to the lattice, feeling it rattle loudly beneath his feet. There came no irritated reprimand from the dark entrance of the bureau, and Altair could see through the lattice that there were no rugs or pillows out in the garden. The potted plants were gone, and most disturbing of all, Altair could not smell the familiar sandalwood incense Malik constantly burned.

"I'm being ridiculous," Altair breathed to himself, moving to the hatch. It was locked, so Altair took out his pick and set to work. "He is probably out cleaning the rugs."

In little time at all, Altair had sprung the lock. He dropped down into the eerily-silent bureau, making sure to land with a significant thud. Nothing was said, so he turned to the fountain behind him. The bubbling, trickling water was the only sound in the bureau, and it was hardly comforting. Quickly, Altair splashed his face with water and refilled the water pouch on his hip, then moved to the doorway.

He froze dead in his tracks.

The reception of the bureau was empty. Breath hitched, Altair took in every single detail- or lack thereof, in any case. All of Malik's books were missing, his maps on the walls were gone, and all his cartography supplies were gone. A circle outlined by dust indicated where Malik's incense burner had been sitting. Even his shatranj board in the corner was gone; the cushions where they had both sat last time he was in Jerusalem, plotting de Sable's death, had been snatched from their spots.

Altair gaped openly. Oh no. Oh no. Malik had not replied to his messages for _a full month_. What if he had been taken by Templars? Him and every bit of information the bureau contained? A chord of panic thrummed through his body and he lurched forward, pushing open the small gate that separated Malik's personal quarters from the rest of the bureau. On his way over he froze- a crate lay overturned behind the counter, books spilling out all over the floor.

Altair threw open the curtain. Malik's quarters were as bare and silent as the rest of the bureau. The old scmitar that hung on the far wall that Altair sometimes caught glimpse of from the reception room was gone, leaving a curved mark where there was no dust. The wooden platform where his sleeping rugs would have laid was still there, but there was no sign of his other bed things.

Altair looked back at the books scattered on the ground. There was no dust on their covers, so it couldn't have been a whole month since this happened. Maybe they hadn't gotten far... maybe...

Altair straightened with a snap and went back out to the garden. Malik would never allow himself to be captured without a fight, and the smell of blood was one that Altair knew too well. He could smell none here, so he quickly splashed more water on his face and scaled the wall.

He would go to the emergency bureau. If Malik had heard even the slightest whisper that the regular bureau had been compromised, he might have packed everything up and switched locations. With this encouraging thought in mind, Altair tore full-tilt across the rooftops, no longer concerned about heatstroke. He drank huge gulps of water from his pouch as he ran.

He paid the archers no mind, and they returned the favor- in the intense heat of this day, they were as interested in a rooftop chase as he was.

After almost an hour- in which he had drained his pouch completely- Altair reached the emergency bureau. It too was silent, and the fountain inside was dry as a bone. Altair tried the hatch and swore when it turned out to be locked. Not only was it locked, but the hinges were so badly rusted from disuse that Altair knew in his gut that nobody was inside. Despite this, he picked the lock and threw the hatch open. The hinges squealed in protest, but Altair ignored them as he fell into the small garden and practically ran into the bureau.

Empty, and so full of dust that he sneezed and had to back out. Altair retreated to the fountain and crouched down in the shade it gave off, trying to think clearly. His skin was practically burning, prickling with dried sweat.

It couldn't have been _a whole month _since this had happened. He would have heard something from someone. Clearly, Malik had not changed locations, for he would have sent a message- irritated at Altair or not, this was an Order matter and not a part of a petty argument. He had to have been dragged off by Templars (an ambush in his sleep probably. That was the only way they could have gotten Malik without blood being spilled) and recently too. There was no new dust cover in the regular buruea.

Altair rested his now-pounding head in his hands. He stared at a deep crack running along the bowl of the fountain, tracing it with his eyes as he rationalized to himself. If Malik had been captured in the past fewdays, he would have heard talk in the marketplace. Try as the guards might, gossip moved quickly through the city. The recent capture of one assassin and their bureau would have resulted in far more attention being paid to him while he had lounged in the market and moved idly across the rooftops.

Nothing made sense. Altair stood up, then scaled the wall once more. He would go back to the regular bureau and look for more clues. He would look at the only things seemingly left in the bureau: the crate of books behind the counter. Maybe there was something mixed in there that would point him to what had happened...

With that, Altair began to run once more across the rooftops. He was out of water, having foolishly drunken it all down, and soon his head was practically buzzing from the heat. His muscles protested under his own weight and soon, his throat and mouth were dry as sand, his tongue feeling slightly too big for his mouth. Altair ignored these warning symptons, not slowing for even a second.

By the time he made it to the bureau, Altair was almost stumbling over his own feet. He tumbled through the hatch he had left open earlier. He made good on his mental promise earlier and dunked his entire head into the cold water, relishing the feel of it against his burning skin. He was probably an ugly shade of pink from suburn now.

Altair dragged himself out of the water, gasping. His shoulders heaved with the effort of catching his breath, and his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost didn't hear the soft voice coming from the inner bureau.

"_Aha_-!" the voice said in triumph, and Altair froze, becoming as still as death. "...I knew that was not all the crates..."

And then Altair was all motion- not his usual, graceful strides, but a halting, stilted stumble. He went to the doorway, squinting through the dark bureau at the hunched over figure behind the counter.

"...Malik...?"

Malik shot up straight from behind the counter, a book in his hand and a bewildered expression on his face. Relief flooded through Altair, followed by confusion as Malik rounded the counter and moved towards him.

"Altair, what are you doing here? Why are you not in Masyaf?"

"...You're here-!" Altair waved his arms around to idicate the bureau. Malik eyed him unsurely.

"...Yes. Yes I am."

Altair pointed out the bureau again, aware in a distant sort of way that he probably looked like a flailing madman. It was difficult to get across his point when his head felt stuffed with cotton and the buzzing in his ears had intensified.

"Here..." Altair pointed to the bookshelves. "Empty."

"Yes, they are..." Malik said slowly, "...Altair, are you ill?"

Altair answered that by letting his eyes roll up in his head and crumpling to the ground. The last thing he saw were Malik's approaching feet before darkness crashed in.

* * *

><p>"Altair."<p>

Altair groaned, then sputtered indignantly when water was splashed over his face. He opened his eyes- Malik had dragged him into the reception area of the bureau and was leaning over him with his water pouch.

Which he then promptly splashed onto Altair's face again when the man didn't say anything. Altair coughed and sat up all the way. Malik splashed him again, this time with a bit of vindictiveness. Altair pushed the pouch away from him.

"Alright, alright," he growled, "...How long have I been...out?"

"You mean how long it's been since you _fainted_?" Malik asked, smirking, and Altair scowled at him. Malik answered "Only a few minutes. I had no intention of letting you laze around all day; my cart is waiting outside the city and I only came back to pick up this crate that was left."

"...Cart?" Altair said slowly, blinking at Malik. "...Where are you going? The emergency bureau was empty..."

Malik flicked him an amused look.

"Is that what you were doing, running around in this heat?" he asked, "You're a ridiculous man."

"You haven't written in a whole month," Altair growled back, finding his bearings as he slowly crawled up to his feet. He took the water pouch from Malik, and the other man went back around the counter, stooping to pick up the fallen books. Altair's legs felt like jelly and his joints like lead. "...Why haven't you written? Where are you _going_?"

"Honestly, Altair, do you ever think?" Malik looked up, somehow managing to look down his nose at Altair even as he was hunched over on the ground. "I told you in my last letter that if you begged me to return to Masyaf once more, I would stop writing you."

"Yes, but-" Altair floundered, not sure what point Malik was trying to make. Malik sighed loudly as he stacked his gathered books on the counter, then reached down and picked up the crate.

"_Think_, Altair. You are normally not this stupid," Malik dropped the crate on the counter and leaned forward a little. The smirk on his face was nearly unbearable for Altair to look at. "If I am in Masyaf, there is no need for me to write to you."

Silence, then it slowly dawned on Altair.

"You're..."

"...Going to Masyaf, yes."

"...Right..."

"Now. Yes. Very good, Altair," Malik stacked the books into the crate. "...It has taken me the month to find a suitable replacement here in the bureau. Although if I had known you were this frantic-"

"I was _not _frantic," Altair rumbled dangerously. Unaffected, Malik just snickered at him.

"Very well, Altair, you were not frantic. You were beside yourself with worry. Is that better?" Malik cut him off before he could deny that too, "...But in any case, I suppose it is well enough that you were so consumed with concern over my well being that you came. You carry this to the cart."

Malik patted the crate. Altair frowned a little at being ordered around, but slowly stepped up and took the crate. He followed closely on Malik's heels as they went out the door into the street outside.

"Was that really your thought process?" he asked, "...Your decision to come to Masyaf was reached through my requests?"

"...Yes and no," Malik admitted, "But then I woke up this morning to this ungodly heat and decided that if this is just the first day of summer, I would much rather be in Masyaf anyways."

Altair nodded as he followed Malik down the street, kicking up dust that settled in the hot air. He silently agreed that Masyaf was far more pleasant.

"And you will have to find your own horse."

"Yes, Malik."

"You're not riding in the cart. It's my cart. I'm riding in the cart."

"Yes, Malik."

* * *

><p>..aaaaaand rest.<p> 


	9. Stay

The only thing Altair wanted to do right now was shove his hidden blade straight through the Masyaf surgeon's neck.

Granted, he understood in a distant sort of way that the man was only helping him. Years of experience and training, however, had him excuciatingly tense as the surgeon shifted his fingers around inside of his mouth, which was forcibly pried open by a device that looked like it was meant for torture rather than healing. The splitting agony in his jaw had intensified two-fold because of it, and the only reason he was not currently killing the surgeon was Malik's calming hand on his shoulder.

The surgeon finally hummed something that had a sense of finality to it and withdrew his fingers from Altair's mouth. He began to unwinch the device keeping his mouth open.

"You have an abscess in your tooth, Mentor Altair," the surgeon said simply as he pulled the device free. Altair gingerly slid his mouth shut, finally relaxing back against his pillow, "It's an infection of sorts, and there are two possible ways to treat it."

"What are his options?" Malik asked quietly when Altair did not say anything. The pain in his mouth had started almost a week before, and it had become difficult for Altair to eat or talk. Malik was quickly becoming his voice to the world, and probably saying all the sensible sorts of things that he could never manage.

"Well, he can have the surgery right now and I can yank the tooth and it will be done and over," the surgeon said, looking up when Malik grunted a negative. Even if it was only a tooth, the news of the Mentor being weak from surgery would spread to all the wrong ears. "Or I can drain the abscess. The process will take a period of time, and the chance of the infection spreading is a significant one. It could send him into a fever, or spread so far as his brain."

Silence answered him, then Altair slowly shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, being careful of the epicenter of the pain in his mouth.

"Jus' pull it," he managed, and Malik slanted him a sharp look. The surgeon shrugged.

"Get comfortable; I'll bring the opiate," he said simply, moving away from the bed and slipping out of view into the back of the hospital wing. Malik turned to look at Altair.

"You're an idiot," he growled, and Altair only gave him a thin half-smile, "...Even if it is but your tooth, you will be vulnerable to an attack until you can go about without an opium-rag pressed to your face."

"Been vuln'rable for the pas' week," Altair said around his hand, "...So much pain; can barely concen'rate."

"Your eloquence doesn't seem to have suffered a blow, at least," Malik joked, looking up as the surgeon reappeared with a bottle and a sponge, and several vicious looking tools tucked under his arm. The man went to the other side of the room to prepare the opium. Malik felt his insides squirm a little at the sight and he looked back at Altair. "I suppose I shall go and organize a guard detail to protect you while you're _incapacitated_."

He stood to go, but was stopped when Altair reached out and grabbed the hem of his robe. Altair's face was carefully schooled into a neutral expression, but Malik had learned how to read the man and could see the anxiety in his yellow-gold eyes.

"I've ne'er had a surg'ry," Altair admitted slowly, clearly trying to admit his fear without actually losing face, "...Will you stay?"

Malik stared at him for a long moment, then slowly slid back into his seat by the bed. He put his hand back on Altair's shoulder and squeezed tightly.

"It only lasts a moment," he promised as the surgeon approached, "I will stay to guard you."

Altair nodded his thanks, turning his gaze up to the surgeon. The man placed the sponge soaked with opiate over his nose, and Malik watched as, after a few minutes, Altair's intense gaze faded, and his focus fell on the ceiling. His eyes fell half-lidded, and the surgeon set to work a few moments later. Malik ran his thumb over the fabric of Altair's tunic, feeling warm skin beneath. That Altair would ask, would bare his fear and humble himself to ask Malik to stay...

Malik squeezed Altair's shoulder and leaned back in his chair. Altair asked, and so he would stay.

It was an hour later when the surgeon was finished, placing the bloody bits of the infected tooth on a cloth and covering them up. Malik watched as he shoved several bits of guazy bandages into Altair's mouth and pressed them into the now empty socket. He replaced the sponge with a rag, cleaned up his tools and took the infected tooth to the back, presumably to be burned as Malik's arm had been.

Several long minutes passed, and Altair's eyes regained a little bit of focus. A second later and they closed tightly, then Altair let out a long, low groan. Malik chuckled, reaching up and ruffled Altair's hair.

"I'll get on that guard detail," he murmured, "Just remember, you wanted this quick and easy."

Altair growled, then moaned again. Malik changed his tone to a more gentle one, smoothing Altair's dark brown hair back down.

"I will be right back," he promised, "The surgeon will stay with you until I return."

Malik stood to leave, then looked over when Altair reached out and grabbed his hand. Afraid the man would ask him to stay again, he turned a patient look on the bedridden Mentor.

"Altair, I will be back in a just a minute-"

"Fank-" Altair looked nauseated for just a second from trying to talk around the gauze in his mouth, then continued with some difficulty. "...Fank you. For stayinggth."

Malik stared at Altair for a long moment, then gave Altair an easy half-smile.

"You need only ask, Brother," he said softly, untangling his hand from Altair's to touch the man on the forehead. "Rest for a minute. I'll be right back to stay with you."

Malik stepped out of the hospital wing then to make good on this, trying to keep a handle on the warm feeling that had stolen over him. The Mentor was bedridden and vulnerable, and he needed to get to work making sure he was safe. Malik swept down hallways, rubbing his fingers together, still able to feel Altair's warm touch there.

Malik was still smiling when he got to the barracks to pick out the guards.

* * *

><p><em>...later...<em>

* * *

><p>"Auuugh-"<p>

Malik eyed Altair from across the low table he had set up for him. Stacks of paperwork were scattered all over Altair's lap and the mosaic of rugs that they were sitting on. Altair had the rag soaked in opiates pressed to his mouth and nose, but Malik knew for a fact that the surgeon had lowered the dosage for the second time in the past week. The Mentor's moans and groans for Malik to take pity on him and ease up on the paperwork were for all for show.

"You wanted the fast and easy way, you got it;" Malik said a tad savagely, "And it is not hurting you that badly that you cannot sign your name on the bottom of these contracts."

"Oh... maybe I should have just done this the slow way," Altair grumbled sticking his finger in his mouth for what seemed like the hundredth time that day to feel the empty socket. Malik recoiled in disgust at the sight, but was glad when Altair's finger came out clean of blood. He had bled so much for the first two days that even the surgeon was worried. "I might have caught fever, and not have to do any of this paperwork."

"Yes, and perhaps the infection would have spread to your brain as well," Malik growled, signing Altair's name in his friend's handwriting, matching each clumsy swirl perfectly, "Not that it would make much difference."

Altair growled at him over a stack of files and Malik abruptly wished for the opium-laced Altair of a few days ago, proclaiming his love for all things that sparkled, babbling about 'that pretty white horse that's _mine_' and some poor foreign fellow named 'Desmond', and admitting an absolute loathing of water, something that Malik hadn't known about before but was willing to test later.

Or maybe now, when Altair still had enough opium in his system that Malik could drown him without much struggle. He irritably pointed his quill at Altair when the man attempted to subtly stuff some of the paperwork under the rug.

"To _work_, Altair."

"_Auuuugh..._"

* * *

><p>Two connected excerpts that were going to be a one-shot but never got finished. Plus I have no idea how opium works because <em>I don't do drugs<em> but I do know they used it, and medieval Arabic medicine was actually quite a bit more advanced than medieval Europe. In the case of an abscess, Europeans would just cut the limb/tooth out, but Arab doctors knew how to drain the infection.

annnnnnnnnnd rest.


End file.
